Naguib Mahfouz - Palace Walk

Shaking her head in amazement and sighing, Amina mumbled something to herself.

Yasin observed thoughtfully, "For a girl to flirt with an Englishman is no easy matter. This degree of corruption could not have appeared in a single leap".

"What do you mean?" asked Fahmy.

"I mean that her corruption must have proceeded a step at a time".

Amina implored them, "I ask you to swear by God to give up this conversation".

As though he had not heard her entreaty, Yasin kept on with his observations: "Maryam’s the daughter of a lady whose art in adorning herself has been witnessed by the women of our family…"

Amina cried out in a voice filled with censure and rebuke, "Yasin!"

Backing down, Yasin said, "I want to say that we as a family live according to such strict standards that we know little of what goes on around us. No matter how hard we try to guess, we imagine that other people live the way we do. We've associated with Maryam for years without knowing what she’s really like, until the truth about her was discovered by the last person one would have expected to uncover the facts". He laughed and patted Kamal on the head.

Amina once again implored them fervently, "I beg you to change the topic of this conversation".

Yasin smiled and said nothing. Silence reigned. Fahmy could not bear to stay with them any longer. He responded to the inner voice that was anxiously calling for help and encouraging him to flee far from other eyes and ears, so that he could be all alone and repeat the conversation to himself from start to finish, word by word, phrase by phrase, sentence by sentence, in order to understand and fathom it. Then he could see where he stood.

It was after midnight when al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad left the home of Maryam’s mother, Umm Maryam, concealing himself in the darkness of the cul-de-sac. The whole district appeared to be sound asleep, enveloped in the gloom. It had been that way every night since the English had set up camp there. No one chatted in a coffeehouse, no vendor roamed about, no shop stayed open late, and no passerby stole along. The only traces of life or light were those coming from the camp. None of the soldiers had ever interfered with him as he came and went, but he felt anxious and apprehensive whenever he approached the camp, especially when returning home late at night exhausted but relaxed and in a daze that made it difficult for him even to attempt to walk safely and steadily.

He went down to al-Nahhasin Street before turning to head back toward his house, glancing stealthily at the sentry until he reached the most dangerous section of the street, where it was illuminated by light from the camp. There he was always seized by the feeling that he was an easy mark for any predator. He quickened his steps to reach the dark area near the entrance to his house but had hardly advanced a step when his ears rang as a rude, gruff voice yelled after him in gibberish. He realized from the violent tone and concision of the words, even though he could not understand them, that an order not subject to debate was being tossed at him. He stopped walking and turned, terrified, toward the voice.

He saw another soldier, not the sentry, heading toward him, armed to the teeth. What new development had brought on this treatment? Was the man intoxicated? Perhaps he had been overcome by a sudden urge to attack someone? Or was he out to plunder and loot? With a pounding heart and a dry throat, al-Sayyid Ahmad watched the soldier approach. The lingering effects of his intoxication fled.

This soldier stopped a few feet away from him and in a commanding voice addressed a few brisk words to him. Al-Sayyid Ahmad naturally did not understand a single one. The soldier pointed toward Palace Walk with his free hand. Al-Sayyid Ahmad looked desperately and ingratiatingly at him, suffering bitterly from his inability to communicate or to convince the man that he was innocent of his accusations. He wished he could at least discover what the man wanted. It occurred to him that the soldier had gestured down Palace Walk to tell him to move away, thinking he did not live in this neighborhood. He pointed in turn to his house, so the man would understand that he was a resident returning home. The soldier ignored his gesture and snarled at him, pointing persistently in the other direction. He motioned with his head, as though urging al-Sayyid Ahmad to go in that direction. Apparently growing impatient, he seized him by the shoulder, forcibly turned him around, and shoved him in the back. Al-Sayyid Ahmad found himself moving toward Palace Walk with the other man behind him. He surrendered to his fate, but his joints felt like rubber. On his way to an unknown destination, he passed the military camp and the cistern building. After that, the last trace of light from the camp vanished.

He waded into the waves of gloomy darkness and profound silence, seeing nothing but phantom houses and hearing only the heavy footsteps that followed him with mechanical precision, as though counting out the minutes or perhaps seconds left for him to live. Yes, he expected at each moment to be dealt a blow that would finish him off. He walked along, waiting for it, his eyes staring into the darkness, his mouth pursed from worry, his Adam’s apple jerking up and down as he tried to swallow to relieve his dry, burning throat. He was startled by a gleam of light that made him look down. He almost screamed from dismay, like a child, as his heart plummeted. He saw a circle of light going back and forth and realized that it was caused by rays of light from a battery-powered lantern that his warder had turned on to see where he was going. He got his breath back after his sudden alarm subsided, but this relief was short-lived. He was once more seized by fear, fear of the death to which he was being led. Once more he expected to die from moment to moment. He was like a drowning man flailing about in the water who thinks he sees a crocodile preparing to attack. When it becomes clear that the beast is just some plants floating in the water, he enjoys a momentary relief at being spared this danger, before choking again under the pressure of the real danger presented by the ocean.

Where was the man leading him? If he could only talk that gibberish, he would ask. It seemed he would be forced to go all the way to the cemetery at Bab al-Nasr. There was no trace of any man or beast. Where was the night watchman? He was alone at the mercy of a merciless person. When had he ever suffered like this? Could he remember? In a nightmare… yes, it was a nightmare he had had several times when he was sick. Even in a nightmare the gloom is occasionally brightened by a flash of hope, considerately letting the sleeper feel that his dream is not real and he will be saved from it sooner or later. It was farfetched to assume that destiny would grant him any comparable hope. He was awake, not asleep. This soldier, armed to the teeth, was a reality, not a phantom. The street witnessing his humiliation and captivity was frighteningly tangible, not imaginary. His suffering was real, there was no doubt about that. The least sign of resistance from him would probably result in the loss of his head. There was no doubt of that.

Umm Maryam had told him when she said goodbye to him, "Until tomorrow". Tomorrow? Would that day ever come?

"Ask the heavy feet rocking the earth behind your back… Ask the rifle with its sharp-pointed bayonet".

She had also teased him: "The fragrance of wine coming from your lips is about to intoxicate me". Now both the wine and his mind had flown off. The time for passion was gone, although only a few minutes before it had been all that mattered in life. Now suffering was his whole life… Only a few short minutes separated the two conditions. A few minutes?